


Pulled Asunder

by TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG



Series: Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crying, Deepthroating, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gentle Sex, Illusions, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Nightmares, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Sugar and Spice Witcher Bingo, Time to hurt the bard, Unrequited Love, You can fit so much pain into this pretty boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28091628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG/pseuds/TheArtistFormerlyKnownAsG
Summary: Sugar and Spice Witcher BingoPrompt: sweet dreams
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Sugar & Spice Witcher Bingo [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052879
Comments: 38
Kudos: 304





	Pulled Asunder

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise in advance.

Jaskier wakes with a start. His heart is racing, and he can just feel the last traces of the nightmare that sent him reeling fade away. Something about a mountain, and Geralt, and-

He can't get a grip on it, the images running through his fingers like so much water.

His face is wet, he realises, his throat tight. He reaches up in the darkness and touches his fingertips to his cheek; he must have been crying in his sleep.

Beside him, Geralt stirs. "Jaskier?"

"It's alright, my love, it was just a nightmare," he murmurs, and lets Geralt pull him into his arms again. There's an odd feeling in his chest, something just at the back of his mind that he can't get a grip on, and he frowns up at the dark ceiling.

"I'm here," Geralt rumbles against his neck, and Jaskier sighs and settles into his lover's embrace, and lets sleep take him once more.

* * *

All in all, Jaskier's life has turned out to be exactly what he'd hoped for. He's reasonably famous as a musician and poet, he gets to travel the continent with the love of his life, and he has an odd extended family he wouldn't exchange for anything in the world.

Winter has them all in its grasp, but inside Kaer Morhen, it's warm and homey, and Jaskier spends his days playing cards with Lambert ("No real money," Geralt had told both of them sternly the first year he'd brought Jaskier home with him), discussing books with Eskel (the man is a voracious reader, and him being handsome and witty definitely adds to the experience), or helping Vesemir with the easier household chores (Geralt had been rather shocked to find out Jaskier knows his way around a kitchen, which, considering how much Jaskier likes good food, really shouldn't have been that big a surprise).

The rest of the time him and Geralt spend in their winter bed, curled around each other lazily and just enjoying the other's company, when they're not busy fucking each other silly.

It's perfect, and everything Jaskier ever wanted.

* * *

A few days after his nightmare, Jaskier is in the library, flicking idly through a bestiary. He has little interest in the particulars of a cockatrice's mating habits, but when one is snowed in in an ancient, crumbling keep with only four other people for company, one can't afford to be too picky about one's diversions.

Some of the language is surprisingly flowery for a Witcher, Jaskier thinks, smiling to himself as he turns a page. Then again, meeting Geralt's family has taught him that not all of them are so frugal with either their words or affections.

He's actually reading when the shout comes, about the life cycle of wyverns, and the book almost slips from his fingers.

"J̸͈͇̞̬̹̝̦̄̂͛̈͊͂̔̇̀a̴͈̤̪̝̫̘̾̏̔s̶̰̯̠̪̦̅͛͛̕͜k̷̛̗͂̃̅͌̈͝ḭ̴̝͑͗ͅȩ̶̻̬͚̣̬̥͂͊͂̇̚ȓ̶̠!"

It's Geralt's voice, but it's far away, like Jaskier's ears are underwater, and it's angry. He frowns, puts the book aside and gets up, walks over to the door of the library.

The shout comes again, "Ḑ̵̧̞̳̯̳͆͑̌̃͂̔͂̚͜͠a̸͎̣̬̓̾̓͝m̶̧̙̗̖̻̲̫͙̭͙͛̾̊͝͝n̴̛̰̟͇͐͗̚͝ ̶̮̹̭̮̭͕͓̤̪̊́͠i̴̝̼̪̪͝t̶̨͔̩̹̫͛̐̍̀͊̕,̴̤͍̣̃̏͗̔͋͠ ̶̬͇̱̟̃͊̒̐͘̕͠J̸̣̥͎͙̫̼̞̼̩̝̄̈͂̚å̵̰̬̬͍̼͚̖̓̅͆̾͊̓͝͝͝s̶̨͍̟̙̰̻͙̉͊̆̊k̷̛̦̺̼͛͗̈̃̍̾̑̊i̶̺̇̈́̎̄̊̇e̸̙̰r̴̬͉͓̣͈̈́͠," and he flinches.

"Geralt?"

Silence, for the longest time. Jaskier's nails dig into the door jamb. Then there are steps down the corridor, and a moment later Geralt walks around the corner, a worried look on his face. "What's wrong?"

Jaskier stares at him. "I was going to ask you the same thing. Why'd you yell for me?"

Geralt frowns harder. "I didn't."

"But you must have, I heard you." He's sure that Geralt is pulling his leg, even though he's not really the type for it. "You sounded... angry?"

The Witcher steps closer, puts a hand on his forehead. "No fever," he says, and Jaskier gives him an offended look.

"I didn't imagine it, Geralt! It was you!"

Geralt frowns harder, his hand sliding down to cup the bard's cheek. "It really wasn't, Jask." His thumb strokes soothingly along Jaskier's cheekbone. "Maybe you're just tired. You stayed up so long last night," he says gently, and Jaskier sighs.

Maybe he's right, maybe he just needs some sleep. He did stay up late, playing round after round of gwent with Lambert and losing soundly at most of them. "I guess you're right," he says, and lets Geralt pull him into his arms. "Sleep sounds nice."

* * *

When Jaskier wakes, it's with a scream.

He can still hear Geralt's voice in his head - " _If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!"_ \- can see the livid expression on his face as he sits in the dark, blinking furiously. It's like he has looked into the fire for too long, his lover's face contorted in anger swimming before his eyes like an afterimage, and Jaskier bursts into tears.

He reaches beside him, expecting to touch Geralt's warm body, but the bed is cold and empty. Jaskier cries harder.

Still sobbing, he throws aside the covers and furs and slides out of bed. The stone floor is icy against his bare feet but he hardly feels it. He needs Geralt, needs him to hold him and tell him it's alright, that he loves him and would never say such hurtful things to him.

He feels like a child, wandering the halls of the keep in his nightshirt as he looks for Geralt, still crying. His head is starting to hurt from it. He finally finds the Witcher in the great hall, dozing in front of the fire. Eskel lies sprawled on the floor. There's an empty bottle of White Gull next to the chair Geralt is in, and despite his misery he has to smile. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he grabs one of the blankets the Witchers keep in the hall for him and crawls into Geralt's lap.

Sleep soon takes him again, and when he wakes, it's to a gentle kiss being pressed against his forehead.

* * *

They're sitting down for dinner a week later when Jaskier hears himself ask, "Who is Borch Three Jackdaws?" He doesn't know where the name comes from. He's never heard it in his life, but it rings in his mind clear as day.

The Witchers give each other odd looks. Lambert shrugs. "Never heard of him."

Eskel nods. "Me neither." Geralt and Vesemir look similarly clueless, and Jaskier frowns.

"Maybe I read it in a book somewhere."

Geralt's smile is easy, almost relieved. "Must have."

* * *

It's the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, and Jaskier sits beside Geralt on the battlements, wrapped in thick furs, and watches the stars. The nearby lake is almost entirely frozen, and there are wolves chasing each other across the edges, illuminated by the almost full moon.

"It's so peaceful up here," he says wistfully, leaning his head against Geralt's shoulder. The Witcher hums.

"Not as peaceful since you've been coming here with me," he says teasingly, and Jaskier grins.

"Are you, perchance, calling me loud?"

"You can be," Geralt says, with that glint in his eye that makes Jaskier flush with desire.

Geralt carries him back to his room and sets him on his feet before the fireplace; Jaskier sheds his armour of furs. Geralt takes his time undressing him, lavishing each inch of revealed skin with kisses and the occasional nip of his sharp teeth. When Jaskier is bare before him, he lays him down on top of the furs and swallows his cock whole, and Jaskier sinks his fingers into Geralt's white hair with a groan.

"Fuck, you're so good to me, my love," he moans, and Geralt slides a hand between his cheeks, teases a fingertip against his hole. Jaskier spreads his thighs wider, and then there's oil and Geralt's finger slowly pushing into him.

Geralt takes his time. He works Jaskier open on four of his fingers, and by the time he draws back and pulls Jaskier into his lap, the bard is sobbing with need.

"I got you," Geralt says against his temple as Jaskier sinks down on his cock, "and I'm not letting you go. Not ever."

Half of Jaskier wants to go hard and fast, his orgasm so close for so long now that it takes all of his self-control to stop himself. Mostly though, he wants to enjoy this, and so he winds his arms around Geralt's neck and kisses him.

They move slowly, in tandem, with an ease born of familiarity. After all these years, Jaskier knows the Witcher's body like the back of his own hand, knows each scar and the story behind it, knows where and how to touch to make Geralt melt into a puddle of bliss. The same is true for Geralt - he knows exactly what makes Jaskier lose his mind with pleasure.

And as much as Jaskier loves their more vigorous activities, he adores this, this slow and gentle love making, because that's what it is. Geralt caresses him with hands most people would expect to be incapable of gentleness, and Jaskier sinks fully into the love his Witcher is giving him.

"Jaskier," Geralt murmurs against his temple, fingers gliding over his spine, and Jaskier sighs.

"Yes, my love?"

"What are you thinking about?"

_Just trying to work out what pleases me._

Jaskier frowns, and Geralt takes him by the shoulders, lays him out on the furs again. The Witcher's hair is a gleaming curtain around them as he leans down and kisses Jaskier.

"Geralt," he moans, hooks his legs around Geralt's waist. "Gods, yes, love, just like that." His orgasm is so close he can almost reach it, and when Geralt bows his head and scrapes his teeth over his collarbone, bows lower and sucks Jaskier's nipple into his mouth, he whines and pushes a hand between them. Geralt rumbles a laugh and pulls it away again, pins both of his hands over his head. Jaskier squirms. "Please, Geralt, I'm so close."

"Beg for it, p̵͂̿̊͆̿̆͠r̵̗͍̳͕̈́͌͗̓͑é̷͉͗͜ṫ̸̛͙͓̦̄̈́̓͝ẗ̶́͋̎̆͊̆̅̕͘ỷ̴̧̲͚͛͌̒͋ ̸̗̹͎̘̙̖́ͅb̵͋̅i̶̧̧̻̊̋̚͝r̷͙̭̖̹͑̽̄̈d̷͙̤͕̯͖̩̽͑̇̎͂̄̀͠," Geralt says, and there's something strange about his voice but Jaskier doesn't care, too preoccupied with his need.

"Please, please, Geralt, fuck me, let me come, please give it to me, my love."

Geralt sits up on his knees and starts fucking him, harder and faster, and Jaskier's eyes flutter closed. The Witcher takes both of his wrists into one hand, the other taking hold of his cock, and it's not long before Jaskier gives a cry, his back arching as he comes. Geralt keeps fucking him, steady as a metronome, to the edge of 'too much'. When he finally spills into Jaskier, the bard is floating, his ears ringing and feeling like they've been stuffed with wool.

They lie in front of the fire for a long time, skin to skin, and Jaskier falls asleep with Geralt's arms around him and his spend drying between his legs.

* * *

_See you around, Geralt._

* * *

He has almost gotten used to the nightmares, something that should probably worry him, but how can he when they lead to Geralt carrying him down to the hot springs, washing him with such care, or holding him in their bed, calming him with his gentle presence.

They don't talk about it. It's just another aspect of life in Kaer Morhen: the Witchers train, Lil Bleater needs to be rescued off of the odd roof, and Jaskier wakes screaming. Business as usual.

He's in the library again when he hears Geralt call for him once more. He sounds frantic, and by the time Jaskier is at the door, there is another voice, high and melodious, like a child's. He frowns as he hurries down the corridor. There are no children in Kaer Morhen, haven't been for decades.

"Geralt?"

The Witchers are outside, clearing the courtyard of snow. Geralt is absorbed in his work, although he looks up when he hears Jaskier approach. He smiles. "You alright, Jask?"

"I heard you call for me again." He shifts, arms wrapped around himself. It's bitterly cold out here.

Geralt frowns. "I didn't-"

"Yeah, I know, I just..." He trails off, suddenly embarrassed. "I'll just go to bed, I think. Maybe a nap will help."

The Witcher pulls him close, presses a kiss to his forehead. His lips are cold as ice. "I'll come check on you in a bit."

Jaskier hums and heads back into the keep. The corridors echo strangely, and when he climbs the stairs up to Geralt's room, he sees a shadow disappearing around a corner. Jaskier stops in his tracks.

There is no one in the keep except him and the Witchers. There can't be.

 _It's probably just Lil Bleater_ , he thinks as he keeps climbing the stairs. The hair stands up on the back of his neck.

When he reaches the top of the stairs and turns into the corridor that holds the younger Witchers' bedrooms, he comes face to face with a child.

A very odd child.

He couldn't say if it's a boy or a girl, not that he's going to try. The child has big, yellow eyes. Their skin is a pale blue.

"Who are you," Jaskier asks. The child giggles.

"Isn't it nice here," they say instead of answering his question. Jaskier thinks it might be a girl. "Don't you have everything you need?" They cock their head to the side and stare up at him with their big eyes. "No more sad songs, just happy ones." The child's face twists and they stamp their little foot. "I don't _like_ sad songs."

"Nobody likes them," he says gently, "but sometimes we need them." There's an odd pain behind his breast, and he presses his palm against the spot.

"You were crying _so much_ ," the child says, "and singing such sad songs. Kept me awake all night long!"

"I'm sorry," he says, even though he's not quite sure what he's apologising for. "I won't do it again."

The child narrows their eyes. "The one with the white hair," they say, and Jaskier's eyes flit to the window. He can see Geralt, still shoveling snow in the courtyard. "He found you," the child continues, "and now _he_ won't let me sleep! Such nuisances!"

Jaskier frowns. "What do you mean, he found me? I'm right here."

The child laughs. "You are and you aren't." They cock their head again. "Do you want to stay here?"

"J̷̰̗͓̯̍̔̈́̓͘ą̸͖̭̹͎̥̻͎̋̾̌͊͝͝ş̵̨̫̪̙̰͌̾̔̕͘ǩ̷͚͈̇ḯ̶̮̦̦̬̼̮̂̉͑͜͝ͅĕ̶̛̾̈́̄̓͐̅͝͝r̷̨̖̻͐̅̋̈̂͒̿̚,̵͓̹̱͕̩̿̑̅͜ ̴̡̫̠͖̳̭͔̣͖͂̎̐̉͗͊̚̚͘w̷͎͙͉͖̒͒̓̑ä̴̬̭̘̦͈͉̗̅́͛͜͠k̵̢̺͎̺͕͙̽̓̇̕͠e̴̖̱̝̬̝͇̠̽ ̵̙̟͖͔́̌̆̍͑̉̏͋̈́ũ̵͍̯͍̮̮̉͒͑̕p̸̆̒͛̆,̵̨͇̮̙̭̪̘͔͆̈́͋̐ ̷̙̟͚͍̯͖̼͓͗́̐͒̒̐̉͐̚ͅd̴̼̲͉̍̎̉̌͛ã̷̢̼͇̦͖̮͉̈́͗̓̑̏̕̕͜͝ḿ̶̡͙͍̙̙̆̈n̷̡̘͈͙͛͑͗͒́͌̓̔̚͝ ̸̧͖̜̜͖̯̫͇̗̖̔͘ǐ̷̪͕t̸̛̙̔͊̍̇̉̉̿!"

He whips around. The corridor is empty except for him and the child. "What do you mean," he asks faintly. "Where else would I go?"

"Back out there," the child says, waving a hand towards the ceiling. Skyward. "He really wants you to," they add. "He's _very_ cross with me for making you dream such a lovely dream."

There's ice in Jaskier's veins instead of blood. There must be. He stares at the child. "What do you mean, dream? What's going on?"

"You were so sad because the Witcher was a big old _meanie_ to you," they say, "and I gave you this lovely dream where he's always nice! Isn't that better?"

A dream. Magic.

There's an answer to all this on the tip of his tongue. He knows that this is not a child, but he can't put the knowledge into words.

"All of this is fake?" His voice is barely a whisper, and he realises that he's shaking.

"You love him, don't you," the child asks shrewdly, and Jaskier nods.

"I do. More than anything."

"Then stay here! Here you can have him, _forever_! The one out there," they wave their hand at the sky again, "he's so mean, why would you want him?"

_He's just a bard!_

_I'm not your friend._

_She saved your life._

_... take you off my hands!_

He's crying. Must be, his face is wet. "I can't-"

"Jaskier?"

Geralt stands behind him, frowning. Jaskier whimpers.

"Who are you talking to?"

"He can't see me," the child says, giggling.

Jaskier dissolves into sobs, and Geralt is there in an instant, his arms strong and steady around him. "Hey, it's alright, Jask. We'll figure out what's wrong," he says, and Jaskier buries his head into his shirt and cries.

When he has no more tears left, he breathes, lets himself soak up the familiar scent of sword oil and leather, horse and yes, a hint of onion, and what is fundamentally _Geralt_.

It's all an illusion. He realises this with a clarity that cuts him to the quick. Geralt never loved him. He never took him to Kaer Morhen, he barely let him speak to Vesemir and his brothers the few times they chanced upon each other on the Path.

He screamed at him on a mountaintop, and Jaskier's heart shattered into a million pieces.

Jaskier leans back and wipes his tears away. Geralt - no, _not_ Geralt - looks down at him, that eternal frown weighing down his brows. "Kiss me, please," Jaskier murmurs, and not-Geralt does.

The kiss tastes like salt, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and clings to the man in his arms as hard as he can.

When their lips part, Jaskier throws his arms around the other's neck. "I love you," he whispers, "please never forget that."

Then he lets go and faces the child.

"Take me out of here."

The child looks annoyed, but then they shrug. "Your loss," they say, and the world goes dark.

* * *

Jaskier blinks awake in a lumpy bed. Above him is a wooden ceiling he has never seen before, the beams dark with age. Birds are singing outside the window. The sun is shining. He blinks again. He feels weak, like he's been confined to a sickbed for weeks.

When he turns his head, his breath catches.

Geralt sits beside his bed, slumped in a chair, fast asleep. Tears well up in Jaskier's eyes, and before he can stop himself, he sucks in a breath that turns into a sob. Geralt jerks awake, eyes wide, looking for the source of the noise, and when his eyes fall on Jaskier, the relief that shows on his face, even if only for a moment, is enough to break Jaskier's heart all over again.

"Jaskier," the Witcher says, and then he's taking the bard's hand in his, and Jaskier can do nothing but cry and cry, until his throat is raw and his eyes burn.

* * *

It was a godling, Geralt explains, disturbed by Jaskier's maudlin singing as he made his way down the mountain. They put him to sleep and gave him dreams so they could get "some damn peace and quiet," Geralt said.

Jaskier scoffs. "I've heard that one before," he says into his third bowl of porridge. Apparently lying around on the side of a mountain for over a week will take it out of you a bit. Who knew.

"Jaskier," Geralt says, and Jaskier's hand twitches. It's the same soft voice not-Geralt used when they talked about his nightmares, and it makes him sick to hear it come from the real Geralt's lips. "I wanted-" He frowns hard at his ale. "I _need_ to apologise."

Jaskier looks up at him. He keeps his face carefully impassive. "What for?"

Turns out Geralt of Rivia squirms when he's _really_ uncomfortable. "For the things I said to you. On the mountain." Jaskier's eyebrows rise, and Geralt looks away. "I was hurt," he admits, "and overwhelmed. You didn't deserve what I said."

"No," Jaskier says, "I don't." He looks at the porridge in his bowl. "Destiny is a fickle bitch, Geralt," he says, "and blaming me for her actions isn't fair."

"I know it's not." The Witcher grimaces. "I know that now." His fingers twitch around his tankard. "When I found you in the forest- I thought you were dead, your heartbeat was so slow. And then you said my name." He looks even more uncomfortable than before. "Well. Moaned it."

Jaskier blushes. "Ah. That's... awkward."

Geralt stares down at his ale as intently as though it was about to reveal all the secrets of the universe to him. "What did the godling show you?"

 _You_ , Jaskier thinks, _how I wanted it to be between us. You, loving me back._

"I don't remember," he says instead, even though he knows Geralt can sniff out a lie as easy as breathing. "I suppose you featured but..." He waves a hand vaguely.

Geralt looks at him for a long, long moment. "Hm."

* * *

It takes Jaskier another week to be able to travel again. Geralt stays, unexpectedly, busying himself with small contracts in the vicinity. It's pest control, really, but coin is coin.

They leave Caingorn together, and it's almost like it was before, except for the parts where Jaskier has to bite his tongue on a thoughtlessly spoken, "My love," or catches himself starting to lean into Geralt's nonexistent embrace. It's in Yspaden where he just can't take it any more.

"I shall take my leave of you here, old friend," he tells Geralt with a smile. Geralt frowns. "I really need to get back home for a change, see if the old manor still stands. Maybe my father has finally seen fit to kick the bucket."

"Jaskier-"

"I'll see you around, Geralt, don't you worry! It's such a small continent," he says, the words burning his throat as he turns and walks away from Geralt, waving at him over his shoulder. He really should be used to the feeling of his heart breaking by now.

He's so caught up in his own misery that it takes him a while to realise that Roach is following him, and Roach means Geralt. He looks back over his shoulder; Geralt is watching the road.

"What are you doing?"

Geralt grunts. Then he says, looking at the trees they're passing by, "Haven't been to Redania in a while."

Jaskier... stares, for the longest time. Then he smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the Godling quest in Novigrad in Witcher 3, and the SPN episode "What Is And What Should Never Be".
> 
> Come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/formerly_as_g?s=09)!


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